


Stupid Deaths - The Mary Queen of Scots edition

by Fyre



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: 16th Century CE, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Queen of Scots wasn't the only members of her social circle to have a very stupid death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Deaths - The Mary Queen of Scots edition

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this stuck in my head for days, and the more I read, the more deaths I found :D There were others, but I think this is long enough as it is meantime :)

**James V (played by Mat Baynton) - 1542**

 

"Halloo!"

Death almost dropped his mug of coffee in sleepy surprise. Only the Mummy had arrived when the newest hopper of the mortal coil strode in through the doors. The skeletons were never on time. Doreen always insisted it was because they pull themselves together, but Death was quite sure they were just lazy.

"Excuse me?" He said, peering at the newcomer. "Don't you know you're a bit early?"

The man standing in the doorway rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands on his hips. "Is that the kind of salutation you give a King? Do ye not ken who I am?"

Death looked the man up and down. He was dressed in a nightshirt. "You don't look much like a King," he said. "You're a bit short in the shiny hat department."

The man snorted. "Och, dinnae think a wee crown is the making of a King," he declared. "A King is a man of the people and for the people." He clasped his hand to his heart. "I fought for them, and died for them." He adjusted the fall of his nightshirt. "I," he declared, "am James the fifth o' Scotland. I brought a revival of art and beauty to my fair land, despite the intentions of Henry VIII! Indeed, I was the master of the army so lately done battle at Solway Moss!"

"Ooh!" Coffee forgotten, Death sat up a little straighter. "A King who died in battle?" He nudged the Mummy beside him. "Always a good way to start the morning, those ones." He folded his hands in front of him. "So what was it? Stabbing? Flaying? Whacked on the head?"

"Ah." The King hesitated, holding up a finger. "I didnae die in the battle."

Death frowned. "Didna... didn't die in battle?" he echoed. "But you just said you were at the field of Solway Moss."

The King tugged at the collar of his nightshirt uncomfortably. "I was in charge o' the army," he agreed. "But I didnae actually... die there."

"I suppose that does explain why you're running around in your nightie," Death agreed. "Not exactly good armour, is it?" He put his head to one side. "Ooh, I know! It was an embarrassing wound, wasn't it? An embarrassing wound in a weird place that got infected?"

"No!" The King said indignantly. 

Death motioned impatiently. "So you didn't die on the field, but you were in the battle, yes?"

"Er..." 

"You didn't die in battle and you weren't at the battle even though you were leading the army?" Death frowned. "I mean, I've heard about leading from the rear, but that's ridiculous."

The King folded his arms. "A King's royal person must be protected," he sniffed.

"Good job there," Death said dryly. "What with the being dead and all." He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. "So, out with it. If you didn't die in or around the battle, what did you die of? Sleep?"

The King fidgetted and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Death cupped a hand beside his skull. "I'm not exactly blessed in the ear department. You'll have to speak up."

The King knocked his fist against his thigh. "A cold," he mumbled.

Death's eyes widened. "A cold?"

James scowled at the floor. "It was a bad cold!"

"But it's hardly dying in battle, is it? Or of an embarrassing wound?" Death sat back, folding his arms. "Huh. Here I was, expecting a good stupid death to start the day and I get a King in a nightie complaining about his 'wee sniffle'."

The King stared at his toes. "If it's any help," he said, "they say I died of a broken heart."

"What? Because you slept in and missed the battle?"

"Because we lost," the King mumbled. "On our own land an' a'."

Death snickered. "Death by loser," he said, holding up forefinger and thumb in an L-shape. "Okay, that's pretty stupid."

The King looked indignant. "But I didnae..."

"Too late, King Loser," Death said cheerfully. "You're through to the afterlife."

The King pulled a face at him as he faded out of sight.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**King Francis II (played by Lawry Lewin)**

 

Death was bored. Doreen and Ted, the two skeletons on the panel, were bickering, which meant they were talking right over the top of the Mummy and Death himself. Normally, there were only moments between stupid deaths, but the last one had vanished half an hour before, and yelling “Next!” at the top of his voice didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

Do you think they would notice if we left? The Mummy always was one to retreat back to his trailer. It was more of a sarcophagus on wheels, but it was bigger than anything the skeletons had. 

“You’re here to work, Mr I’m so special because I have my guts put in jam jars,” Death said, getting up from the desk and approaching the doorway. “Hello? Anyone out here? Really, we’ll even take a boring old fall-on-own-sword right now.”

A young man blinked owlishly at him. He was standing right outside the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows, a bandage around his head and a worried look on his face. “Uh. Allo.”

Death caught him by the ruff around his neck and hauled him into the room. “What are you doing out there, mate? We’ve been waiting ages!”

“Pardon,” the young man said sheepishly. “I… how you say… I have…” He tapped at his bandaged ear. “It is difficult for me to ‘ear.”

“Oh, ’ear we go,” Death said with a snicker, as he set the lad in front of the desk.

“Pardon?” 

Death rolled his eyes. “Nevermind,” he said, raising his voice. He returned to his chair, stopping dead in indignation. “Who nicked my sweets?” He’d never seen a pair of skeletons so spineless. They blamed the Mummy right off, and sure enough, he could see the wrappers sticking out of the bandages. He snatched the back and sat down, giving the Mummy a stern look. “You can’t cheat Death,” he said. “Everyone knows that. Especially not for a toffee penny.”

The Mummy didn’t even try to look remorseful. At least as far as Death could tell.

On the other side of the desk, the young lad was fidgeting nervously.

“So…” Death turned back to their latest guest, and covered the sweets on the desk with both gloved hands, just to be on the safe side. “What’s your story?”

Wide, pale eyes blinked. “Oh. Uh. I am Francis of France,” he said.

“Not exactly an original choice of name, is it?” Death said, but the young man didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I am King of France, King Consort of Scotland, Duke of Brittany and Dauphin of Viennois.”

Death held up a finger. “Was,” he said helpfully. “Dead, remember?”

The young man blushed. “Oui,” he said. 

Death picked up his quill and licked the nib. “And how did you meet your maker?”

The young King lifted his hand to his bandaged ear. “I fainted many times,” he said, “and I was having pain here.”

Death frowned. “A sore ear?”

King Francis nodded solemnly. “They thought to trepan me when it grew worse, but they could not cure it, and finally…” He spread his hands prosaically. “I died.”

Death stared at him. “That’s it? An ear infection? A King who died of an ear infection.”

King Francis nodded with a shrug. “It was a very bad infection,” he said. 

There was a long silence.

Then Death burst out laughing. “Of all the ways for a King to go,” he hooted. “Killed because of a sore ear!” He tossed one of his toffee pennies across the table and Francis caught it. “A little something to see you on your way.”

King Francis’s expression brightened. “Merci,” he said, bowing politely. “And I am sorry I was late.”

Death waved both hands dismissively. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Everyone around here is.”

He was still chortling to himself as the young King disappeared through the doorway. “Nice boy, I hear,” he said. 

Beside him, the Mummy groaned.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**David Rizzio (played by Jim Howick) - 1566**

 

"What do you think?" Death tilted his head this way and that. "Dashing, isn't it?"

The hat had been a cavalier's. It had been left behind when the chap went on his way. No real need for a fancy hat when you can't even keep your head, Death supposed.

The feather's too much, the Mummy stated.

Death looked at him. "Don't think I didn't notice your entourage, mate," he said. "You don't get to say what's too much when you got boxed up like a Russian doll and have all those uselesshabtis running around after you." He prodded the Mummy firmly in the chest. "Too much! At least I don't have gold and jewels stuck down my knickers for later."

The Mummy huffed, and Doris - the bag of bones beside him - muttered that Death was just jealous.

"Jealous?" Death snorted, lifting his hands to adjust his hat. "Of looking like I was attacked by the toilet-paper monster? I don't think so, love." He flicked the scarlet feather back above the brim, then picked up his papers. "Next!"

A nervous face peeked around the edge of the door. "Uh... ciao."

Death waved a hand impatiently. "Come on, come on," he said. "No need to be shy." The man edged bashfully into the room and Death gasped, flinging a hand up to shield the Mummy's eyes, the other covering his own. He peered between his fingers. "Have you no shame?" He pulled off his new hat and threw it across the room.

The little man on the far side of the desk caught it and held it modestly in front of him. He was stark naked, and covered from head to foot in blood and bruises.

"It'sa kinda embarrassing," he confessed. "They hava stolen my clothes anda my jewels."

"And your life," Death pointed out.

"Si," the little man agreed mournfully. He bowed with too much arm waving and Death covered his eyes again. "I ama David Rizzio, friend to Maria, Queen of Scotland. We are both of the true Roman faith."

Death grinned. "I can see you're a holey man," he agreed. He waited and Rizzio stared at him incomprehending. "Holey? Full of holes? Because of the..." He made a stabbing gesture.

"Ah! Si! I see!" Rizzio said, then frowned. "Is not very funny."

Death sniffed. "Everyone's a critic," he said. "So, Mr Rizzio, how did the friend of the Queen end up dead?"

Rizzio sighed mournfully. "Is very sad story," he said. "They do not like me because I ama not from Scotland. The Queen, she likeda me. She gave me job. I work with her musicians, and as her secretary with a very gooda salary."

"So you were a little bit rich-io?" Death said eagerly.

Rizzio looked puzzled. "Yes?" he said.

Death rolled his eyes at the Mummy. "Brilliant puns, and he doesn't speak my language," he said. "So you were working with a Queen, you were doing well, and...?"

"And her husband anda his friends decided I was too friendly with her," Rizzio said. "They came to the room, and I hid behind the Queen. She was pregnant anda I am not a big man."

Death leaned back in his seat. "You hid behind the Queen's bump?"

"Sorta?" Rizzio shrugged. "It was not big enough. They pulled me out anda..." He mimicked Death's stabbing gesture. "Then they take my clothes and my jewels and push me down the stairs."

"So much for naked ambition," Death said.

"Oh ho! Naked! Funny!" Rizzio said, wagging a finger at Death.

Death blinked. "And I wasn't even trying that time," he said with a pleased grin. "Well, mate, you're through to the afterlife." He gestured to the door. "Try not to drip."

He had to cover his eyes again when Rizzio bowed extravagantly. "Grazie! Grazie!"

Death dared to peek through his fingers, lowering his hand once he was sure Rizzio was gone. "More like crazy crazy." He shook his head. "We really should have a no-nudity clause."

Doris chuckled, her bones rattling, saying that was why she had signed on to begin with.

Death made a face. "You would." He riffled through his papers. "Next!"

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**Lord Darnley (played by Mat Baynton) - 1567**

 

It had been a slow day. Ted was knitting a jumper. The Mummy was sorting through his cartouche collectors cards. Doreen was… sleeping? It was hard to tell when she didn’t have any eyes. Or eyelids for that matter.

Death himself was trying his best to read a book, but sometimes, one just needed a good death.

Fortunately, a head poked around the doorway.

It was a young man with mussed hair. He was in a nightshirt and there were grass stains on his feet and mud on his face and hands. 

Death brightened, putting the book down. “Hello!” He nudged his companions. “Look lively! We have a guest!” He paused, frowned. “No, wait. That doesn’t work.” He glanced one way then the other. “At least look like you’re paying attention, all right?”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the assessment room for the afterlife, my friend,” Death said, straightening his papers. “So, name, occupation, and death?”

“But I was just in bed,” the man protested, turning around on the spot, as if he couldn’t understand where he was. “My wife asked me to come back to Edinburgh, so I did and now I’m dead?”

“Unfortunately, that’s what happens when you die,” Death said solemnly. “Solves a population crisis, though, doesn’t it?”

The young man looked at him, frowning. “And you are?”

Death blinked. “Me? I’m Death, obviously!” he said, shaking his head. The young man’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “What do they teach kids these days? Honestly!” Death picked up his quill. “As I was saying, what’s your name?”

The young man bowed slightly. “I’m Henry Stuart, 1st Duke of Albany,” he said, stammering. “My friends called me Lord Darnley.” He hesitated, then added. “King of Scotland.”

Death scratched at his cheekbone with the tip of the quill’s feather. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“I was too!” Lord Darnley exclaimed. “I was married to the Queen and father to the next King!”

“Not according to the paperwork,” Death said with a sunny smile. “We have a Consort here, but not a King.”

Darnley puffed up, red in the face. “Now listen here, you bony…”

“Ooh, bony,” Death said dryly. “There’s something I’ve never been called before!” He leaned back in his seat lazily. “Now, we know you’re not King. We don’t care about that. We just want to know how stupid your death was.”

If anything, Darnley got even redder. 

“I was in bed,” he said, looking at the floor. 

“Yes… and?” Death prompted, waving his quill. “Assassination? Plague? Low-flying weasels?”

Ted snorted.

“What?” Death said. “It could happen?”

Darnley shuffled his feet. “A pillow,” he said.

“A… zombie killer pillow?” Death said optimistically.

Darnley shook his head. “They smothered me with my own bed linen.”

Death frowned. “That’s not stupid. That’s… boring.” He looked Darnley up and down. “And do you always go to bed so mucky?”

Darnley looked up at him. “That would be when they tried to fake my death in an explosion,” he said. “They dragged me and my servant’s bodies out to the garden and dumped us there, half-naked, then blew up the house, so it looked like we’d been blown out into the garden.”

Death burst out laughing. “They blew up the place? After planting you outside? In the garden?”

“Exactly,” Darnley said ruefully. 

“So you died in bed both times!” Death crowed, clasping his hands together. “Once in bed, once planted in a flowerbed!”

Darnley looked at Doreen. “Does he know he isn’t funny?”

Death gasped, affronted. “How dare you!” he exclaimed, leaping up. “I’ll have you know I have people rolling on the floor!”

“Yes!” Darnley retorted angrily. “Because you make them die!”

Death blinked at him, then snickered. “Well, yes, I do that too,” he agreed, subsiding back into his chair and waving his hand. “You’re through to the afterlife. Try and take a moment to smell the roses. Oh, wait! Too late!”

Darnley rolled his eyes as he walked away.

“No sense of humour, that man,” Death sighed. “You have to look on the bright side of life.”

Even if you were dead? Doreen asked.

Death nodded cheerfully. “Especially then.” He looked up at the door. “Next!”

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**James Stewart, Earl of Moray (played by Lawrence Rickard) - 1570**

 

“No!”

Yes, Doreen insisted.

“No!” Death said insistently. 

The skeleton glared at him as balefully as a skeleton with no eyes could. 

Death tried to stare her down, but she was stubborn. “Look, I’ve said no before and I’ll say it again! I’m not a colour-person! Death has a certain look about it: black, grim, morbid. Any of these words ringing any bells in that hollow bone you call a skull?”

Doreen sniffed and said haughtily that he was just bowing to societal pressure.

“I’m being traditional!” he said indignantly.

Boring more like, Doreen replied with a rattle of bones.

Death puffed up in outrage. “Excuse you!”

“Excuse me?”

Death didn’t even glance in the direction of the voice. “Don’t you start too, Ted.”

The other skeleton protested that he hadn’t said anything, and that the little man on the other side of the desk had been waiting for a long while.

Death turned, startled. “Oh! Right.” He grinned at the man all dressed in fine, rich clothes. They would have been nice, if he didn’t have a great hold in him and blood all over his chest and clothing. “And you would be?”

“James Stewart, 1st Earl of Moray,” the man replied with an awkward half bow that stopped when he clasped his hands over his wounded chest. “Sorry, milord. I wouldnae want to spill.”

“Of course, of course,” Death said, peering at the wound, then up at the man. “A Scotchman, aren’t you?”

The Earl smiled. “Aye, milord. It’s good of you to notice.”

“Know anything about a certain Queen?”

The Earl’s expression brightened. “Ah! You mean my half-sister Mary!”

Death looked at him in surprise. “She has a brother?”

“Only a half,” the man said. “I was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

Which side was that? Ted inquired.

“I’ll explain later,” Death muttered out the corner of his mouth. He looked back at Moray. “So, Lord Moray, what brings you to my door?”

Moray looked down at the gaping hole in his chest, then back up. “I dinnae ken,” he said dryly.

Death snickered. “Oh, I like you,” he said. “So tell the story of your little puncture.”

Moray nodded. “After the abdication of my half-sister, I was elevated to be Regent of my nephew, Jamie,” he said. “They called me the Good Regent, and I did my best for both state and child. It was a troubling time, with war and rebellion all over the land.”

“It is Scotland after all.”

Moray smiled ruefully. “Aye,” he agreed. “We’re no’ at peace unless we can have a wee fight.”

“So you were killed in battle?” Death guessed.

“It would have been more fitting,” Moray said. “But no. I was on my way through Linlithgow in a procession, and the Bishop’s nephew took it upon himself to shoot me.”

“With a crossbow?”

Moray shook his head again. “With one of those firing sticks,” he said. “I hadnae heard of a man being shot by one except in warfare and duels. And yet, I was hit by one and killed as I walked through the King’s town. Popped me open like a ripe apple.”

“Well,” Death said grudgingly, “it’s not exactly stupid, but the first record assassination with a gun? I think that’ll be a nice addition to my collection.”

Moray tried to bow again, and failed. “If you’ll pardon me, milord, I think I’d best take my spilled innards and be on my way. I wouldnae want to leave a stain.”

“On you go, old man,” Death said, waving a hand. He sighed once Moray was gone. “Well, that was new.”

But what, Ted said, was he talking about blankets for?

Death looked at the skeleton. Some people, he mused, were much too dead to learn about the birds and the bees. “He’s from Scotland, Ted,” he lied. “Maybe he was cold.” He shuffled the paper, ignoring Doreen’s snickers. “Next!”

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**Earl of Bothwell (played by Ben Willbond) - 1578**

 

Doreen was on her holidays, and Ted and the Mummy weren’t speaking to each other again, so Death was stuck in the middle. He’d even brought pizza, which should have helped. Blokes did that: pizza and beer and bloke things.

But then, secretly, he wasn’t sure that Mummy wasn’t actually a girl under all the bandages. It always felt a bit rude to ask and Mummy never said no to beer and pizza, even when it meant saucy stains all down his - or her - wrappings.

So it was a relief when a swaggering man strode through the door.

Sometimes, the dead appeared as they remembered themselves. Others appeared at the moment of their deaths. It was all about expectation. Sometimes, people expected to die. Sometimes people got an arrow in the eye and didn’t get a chance to question it.

“My Lords!” The man bowed grandly. “A fine house ye have here!”

Death glanced at Ted, feigning that he was impressed by such an observation, then looked back at the man. “And you are?”

The man put his hand to his hip. “James Hepburn, milord,” he said. His voice was deep. “Fourth Earl of Bothwell and husband to Mary of Scotland.”

Death raised a hand. “Mary of Scotland? As in Queen? Of Scots? That one?”

“Aye!” Bothwell grinned. “That’s my bonny lass.”

Death marked another tally line on his sheet. “Doesn’t have much luck, does she? Three dead husbands?”

“Och,” Bothwell scoffed. “The lads werenae husbands to her.” He grinned a devilish grin. “I waited for my Mary.”

“So you died with her beside you?” Death said. “Well, all right, a little bit romantic.”

“Ah,” Bothwell hesitated. “No’ exactly.”

Death leaned back in his seat. “Here we go. Is this is another ‘I was killed and it was disguised as an explosion’ death?” he said. “That’s what the last one said.”

“Ha! That wee bastard would say that,” Bothwell said with a snort. “No. I was shipwrecked off Norway, when fleeing the Queen of England’s men.”

“Fleeing, eh? Why?”

Bothwell shrugged cheerfully. “They had it in their heads that I’d had a wee hand in Darnley’s demise,” he said. “I havenae any idea what made them think that. I only married Mary after because the wee lamb was…”

“Queen?” Death suggested tartly.

“Alone,” Bothwell finished. “A lady needs a husband.”

“Hmm.” Death made a note on his sheet. More of a hangman really, but he was starting to think Bothwell got what he deserved. “So you ran away from your wee lamb, and skipped the country?” He looked at Bothwell. “And what other brave deeds did you do? Apart from being a chicken and crashlanding in Norway?”

“Well,” Bothwell said, tugging his beard, “I had plans to get help from King Frederick of Denmark to save my bonny lass’s throne, but there was a wee problem…”

“Oh?” Death leaned forward.

“Um. Aye. My first wife.”

Death held up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “You had a first wife? Who was still alive? When you murdered the Queen’s husband so you could marry the Queen?”

Bothwell rubbed the back of his neck. “When ye put it that way, it really disnae sound very good, does it?” he said. “But it was a continental marriage.” He smiled winningly. “What happens on the continent stays on the continent, ye ken?”

Death narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“Well… what happened on the continent was all well and good,” Bothwell said, “since I hadn’t gone back there. Until I was shipwrecked by her home town.”

Death gaped at him, then started chuckling. “In all the bays of all the coastline of Norway, you had to wash up on hers,” he said. Bothwell scowled and that made Death laugh even more. “What? No happy reunion with your Missus?”

“No’ exactly,” Bothwell said, looking grumpy. “She had me arrested for abandonment and stealing her dowry.”

“Ha!” Death clapped his hands together in delight. “That’s what you get for being a cad!”

“She would have let me go,” Bothwell said with an impatient sight. “If it wisnae for Elizabeth and her hounds letting King Frederick know I was a wanted man. I got out of one cell, only to end up in another.”

“And…?” Death prompted.

Bothwell spread his hands. “And they left me there wi’ nothing but a pillar I was chained to and the lice and the rats,” he said. “Ten years in a box, while my wives lived on.”

Death looked at him gravely. “And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.”

Bothwell narrowed his eyes. “Do ye mock me, milord?”

Death grinned at him. “Maybe a little,” he said, indicating a tiny space between forefinger and thumb.

Bothwell snorted. “Awa’ and bile yer heid, ye old bag o’ bones,” he snapped.

Death feigned shock. “Now, is that any way to speak to the gatekeeper?” he said. He waved Bothwell towards the door. “No manners, these aristocrats.”

The Mummy point out that he had been involved in the murder of a man to steal his wife.

“Good point,” Death said, tapping the Mummy’s shoulder with his quill. “I think he deserved his closed up box, don’t you?”

Ted said he’d had a box as well.

“Not while you were alive though, eh?” Death said. He patted Ted’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a nicer one. Padded and pillows and a pocket for your ipod.” He picked up his papers again. “Next!”

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

 

**James Douglas, 4th Earl of Morton (Lawrence Rickard) - 1580**

“Good day, sir.”

Death lifted his head. It had been a long day, and all he wanted was to get home and into his nightshirt to have a nice cup of cocoa and a good night’s rest. It was very rare to have someone so perky so late in the day. 

The man standing in the doorway was a broad-shouldered gentleman with a flowing ruddy beard, and a satisfied look on his face. 

“Er. Evening,” Death said, sitting up and abandoning his doodles. “And who might you be?”

The gentlemen tipped his hat. “I am James Douglas, fourth Earl of Morton, and lately Lord Chancellor of Scotland, m’lord,” he said.

“You don’t happen to know Mary? The Queen?”

The man flushed. “I know of her,” he said. 

“Hm.” Death tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Chancellor of Scotland, he says. Doesn’t know the Queen, he says.”

“Very well,” Morton said, holding up his hands. “I was involved in the abdication.” He shook his head. “Bothwell ruined her.”

“Bothwell,” Death said, rubbing his chin. “Pushy man. Full of himself? Ego as big as Ben Nevis?”

“Aye,” Morton said. “The coward fled, and left her behind. He deserved his fate.”

Death grinned. “Good,” he said. “We’re on the same page.” He rested his forearms on the table. “So, Mr Morton, tell me how you died.”

“Much of it was a fight for power,” he admitted, “and they found that I had some small knowledge of the murder of the Queen’s second husband.”

“Darnley, yes? The one who ended up literally pushing up daisies?”

Morton nodded. “I was condemned based on that,” he said. “And to die on a device that I brought back from England.”

“What kind of device?” Death asked eagerly. 

“She was called the Maiden,” Morton replied with a wistful sigh. “A frame to rest the neck on, and a blade weighted to drop and sever the head. A cleaner death I had never seen.” He winced. “Though when I brought the thing home with me, I never imagined my neck would rest on it.”

Death chuckled. “Killed by your own holiday souvenirs? I like that.” He waved a hand. “You’re through to the afterlife!” He set down his quill as Morton faded from sight. “You know, I wonder how many more husbands and regents this woman got through.”

The Mummy offered that he wasn’t one.

“I’d hope not,” Death said with a shudder. “We can’t mix business and pleasure.” He yawned hugely. “Shall we call it a night? Or…” He grinned suddenly. “Shall we call our last guest a knight?”

The skeletons would have rolled their eyes if they could.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

**Mary, Queen of Scots (played by Martha Howe-Douglas) - 1587**

 

It was a bright new day and Death was raring to go. 

It was a shame that his companions were in less than cheery moods. Doreen had spilled some kind of red drink all over the Mummy, and when they had tried to clean the bandages, Mummy had ended up blotching somewhere between white and red.

"Oh come on," Death cajoled. "It's not like a bit of variety hurt anyone."

Of course it did, the Mummy protested. That was what their job was all about! 

"No," Death corrected. "Our job is about the stupid."

And, Ted put in with a chortle, washing reds and whites certainly was that.

Death pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're not helping," he said. He looked at the Mummy. "Think positive: you're in the pink for a little while. Just enjoy it."

The Mummy huffed in outrage and would have folded his arms if they weren't already bound to his chest.

Death patted him amiably on the shoulder, then glanced towards the door. He could hear approaching footsteps. "Here you go," he said. "A nice stupid death to cheer you up." He nudged the Mummy. "Can't say we don't spoil you."

The woman who stepped into the room was striking. She was tall, taller than most that came from her time period, and wearing a grand dark velvet gown with a fine lace bonnet and veil, and a high white collar. A long rosary hung about her waist and she held the crucifix between her fingers.

She sank into a graceful curtsey. "My Lords."

Death was impressed. It was rare to get such proper manners. "All right, love?" he said. "How are you finding the afterlife?"

The woman looked around. "It is... not what I expected," she said. She had an accent that was a bit of a mix, but her voice was clear and strong. 

"Oh!" Death made a quick gesture with a hand. "This is just the lobby, if you will. This isn't the destination. Call it passport control for the hereafter." He beamed at her. "You just need to tell us your name and your tale, and you can be on your way."

She inclined her head, wearing the slightly confused look that a lot of his guests gave him. "Very well," she said. "My name is Mary Stuart, and I was for a time Queen of Scotland."

Death's eyes widened and he slammed his hands down on the table. "Hold the phone!" he exclaimed. "Mary? Mary, Queen of Scots? The one who married the Froggy with an ear ache? Or the King of the Flowerbed? Or Boastwell? That Queen Mary?"

She stared at him in astonishment. "Yes?" she said. 

Death scrambled up and dashed around the table, holding out a gloved hand. She took it as if mesmerised, and he shook it enthusiastically. "Your friends and family and husbands have kept us entertained for a long while, your Majesty," he said. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name."

She looked at him in surprise. “You remember them all?”

He leaned closer and conspiratorially murmured, “Only the best ones.”

The Queen flushed, as he returned back behind his desk and propped his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hands. 

“So, your Majesty, how did you meet your end?”

The Queen smoothed her skirt with her free hand, the other still holding the crucifix. “I have spent the last twenty years as a guest of my dear cousin Elizabeth,” she said. 

“Hold on,” Death said, frowning, “didn’t she want you out of the way?”

Queen Mary’s nose wrinkled. “You could say so,” she said. “When I say guest, I mean prisoner. Just because the building is warm and bright and clean does not make it any less a prison.”

“True,” Death said with a nod. “So what was it in the end? Poison? A good old fashioned natural death? An embarrassing fall?”

The Queen flushed. “I kept correspondence with those who supported me,” she said. “I neglected to think that my trusted wardens might betray me.”

“Ooh…” Death grimaced. “Double crossed?”

“Indeed,” Mary nodded gravely. “My cousin received word that I had supported the possibility of being rescued by my allies and claiming her throne.”

“Well, that was a bit silly, wasn’t it?”

Mary smiled slightly and shrugged. “We all make mistakes,” she said. “I trusted too much in honesty and blood. I should have known better. My son left me to moulder in captivity, even when he came of age, and my cousin put pen to parchment.” She lifted her hand to her neck. “Like her father, she has a taste for beheadings.”

Death winced. “Well, that’s family for you, eh?”

“I would have had her throne, had the plan worked,” Mary said with a crooked smile. “Too many years of passiveness and captivity wore upon me. If I was to have an end, I would rather die as a martyr Queen than gather dust on old bones.” She spread her hands. “I did not go quietly to the night.”

Death applauded enthusiastically. “Good show!” he exclaimed. “Good show! I do like a brave one!”

The Queen looked flattered. “Thank you, milord,” she said.

“And,” he said, “after all you’ve dealt with, I think it’s safe to say you’re through to the afterlife.” He rose and saluted. “Rest in peace, love.”

She laughed. “I shall, good milord,” she said, with another curtsey, then turned and swept from the room.

Death sank back in his seat with a contented grin. “She was worth the wait, wasn’t she?”

The Mummy snickered and inquired if Death was going for the role of husband number four.

Death wondered if the blush was showing. “Oh, shut up,” he grumbled. “Next!”


End file.
